


interstate

by am_fae



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Holidays, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Polyamory, Reunited and It Feels So Good, so much fluff oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_fae/pseuds/am_fae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Laurens steps off the plane from Charleston, Alexander Hamilton is already waiting on a bench in Arrivals.</p>
<p>or: in the 21st century, Laurens comes back from South Carolina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	interstate

When John Laurens steps off the plane from Charleston, Alexander Hamilton is already waiting on a bench in Arrivals.

To be fair, he _had_ asked for the flight info. But Laurens hadn’t really expected him, resigned without even thinking about it to the 3AM arrival and the eventual taxi ride to the locked door of his unlit apartment. The sight of him is so comforting it nearly brings tears to Laurens’ eyes. He inhales, breathless relief. Alex hasn’t noticed him yet, tapping ceaselessly away at the laptop tilted on one knee at a reckless angle. A stack of well-worn textbooks and a few folders takes up the seat next to him. Hamilton reaches for the coffee cup balancing on his armrest. The steam fogs up his glasses. Laurens could kiss him.

Alex mutters distractedly and whips off the glasses. It’s only then he sees Laurens. Dark eyes blink – once, twice. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the loose strands back towards his ponytail, the way you do when you’re trying to act casual around someone you’re trying to impress. It’s pretty transparent. Laurens is quietly flattered all the same. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You made it after all.”

Laurens doesn’t know what to say to that, so he nods. Asking about his plans for the day, skyping on weekends, the texts, demanding the flight info. Little things, not as coincidental as they appear, meant to bind Laurens to New York and the world of the living. He doesn’t know how to tell Hamilton he didn’t have to worry. Yeah, there were times, but he planned on coming back… the whole time, he _did_ plan on coming back.

In the meantime, Alex has finished wiping off his glasses. He puts them back on with a flourish. “At last! Laurens in HD.”

John shakes his head, laughing. They’re reading glasses. It must be really, really HD.

Alex puts a hand over his heart, fake-swooning as much as possible in airport seating surrounded by teetering piles of academic crap. “Those freckles!” He takes them off just as quickly, taking a moment to flash Laurens a smile before pulling his empty backpack from under the seat. The laptop is folded down in seconds. He holds out the still-steaming cup of coffee. “You mind holding this?”

Laurens doesn’t mind. The tall paper cup – seriously, he didn’t know Starbucks _came_ this size – warms his hands as Alex haphazardly crams his books into the bag. With a little more care, the laptop follows. Hamilton bounces up to face the world, turning aside to hide a yawn in the shoulder of his green hoodie.

“Just help yourself, why don’t you?”

“Not my fault you have good taste in coffee.” Good taste is stretching it a bit. Whatever Hamilton’s ordered has about five too many shots of espresso, plus foamed milk and sugar, and a nice taste of cinnamon.

Hamilton pushes him aside playfully, snatching his roller bag before he can react. “Bro. What d’you say we ditch this joint?”

Laurens follows him out. His protests that he can “carry his own shit” are “duly noted” and ignored. The automatic doors slide open ahead of them and the cold New York air whips in, straight through the winter coat loosely slung over Laurens’ shoulders and down to the skin beneath. Alex must be freezing to death.

They make their way across the parking lot, Hamilton in the lead, John making the most of his longer strides to catch up. When it becomes impossible to ignore Hamilton’s shivering any longer – he’s literally shaking – John stops him. “Wanna trade?”

Hamilton’s eyebrows crease a little in confusion, so Laurens decides to make things a little clearer and just shoves the coffee at him with one hand, grabbing the roller bag with the other. Alex’s mouth twists a little, but it’s more fond than bitter, or at least Laurens hopes so. His thin fingers wrap around the cup. Laurens risks another glance. He’s not shaking anymore, so Laurens starts walking again.

It’s a ways to go before they reach the car – longer than you’d expect, but everyone’s coming back from their holidays around now. Lots of flights in from warmer places. Vacation spots. John isn’t sure they run any direct flights to St. Croix.

Anyway, the car.

Alex doesn’t actually own a car. (Hell, he doesn’t even own a decent winter coat.) John could own a car, technically, if he wanted to, but he doesn’t really need it for the city and it’s not like he feels that great about his family’s money on an average day, so. It comes as some surprise when Hamilton ends up leading him to a car that is (a.) not located in the taxi lineup and (b.) not a rental. It’s a decent car, too, gleaming pale blue in the light of the dingy streetlamp. A little Honda sedan, old enough to be secondhand, new enough to look reasonably trustworthy. Hamilton eventually pulls the keys out of his pocket, clicking it unlocked. The lights flash once and Alex balances the coffee on the roof to open the trunk. Laurens hefts his luggage into it and they stumble into the front seat.

The instant the doors close, Hamilton cranks the heat up to its highest setting. The car’s comforting. Wire charms hanging from the rear-view mirror, discarded candy wrappers in the glove compartment. Alex notes Laurens’ observation idly. “It’s Eliza’s.”

“Oh.”

“You are gonna _love_ her, I swear.” Alex takes a gulp of his coffee, jerking the wheel into a sharp left with his other hand. “Shit, Angelica’ll have my hide if this thing gets a scratch – the fuck are you doing, man, seriously –”

Laurens pulls Alex out of his diatribe. “You’re dating Angelica Schuyler’s sister?”

“TURN SIGNAL, JESUS CHRIST! TURN SIGNAL – yeah, I thought that was obvious.” Alex grins. “They do share a last name…”

“Angelica Schuyler’s sister.” John shakes his head. “You’re insane.”

Hamilton bites his already chapped bottom lip for a minute. Finally, brushing Laurens with that beseeching hazel gaze he damn well knows no one can resist, he says, “You haven’t met her yet.”

Laurens’ heart squeezes in his chest. He focuses on the city lights. All Alex’s reckless driving has done is get them into an outrageously long line of traffic earlier. “You know I’m not interested in…”

Hamilton touches his shoulder. “Hey.” He suddenly looks almost panicked. “I love you, you know that, right?”

“Yeah.” _Please don’t panic_. Laurens reaches up to cover the hand on his shoulder. “I know. It’s not that.”

They continue in silence for a while, the warmth from the heater finally taking effect. After a few surreptitious glances, Hamilton seems to decide Laurens means what he’s said.

John wishes he could say it back. He can, sometimes, but only when it slips out casually, like the most natural thing in the world. It’s times like these, in silence, when it really counts, that are difficult. He studies Alex’s profile in the multicolored light. _I love you._

“How was South Carolina?” Hamilton says.

“The usual,” Laurens sighs. Worse than the usual, honestly. “But I told him I’m gonna go for med school, so there’s that.” _I didn’t think I could make it on my own, but then again, I learned that from you._

“Thank God. How’d he take it?”

“Uh.” He threatened to disown me before he realized how bad it would look? “Not well. And then he tried to tell me off for the Black Lives Matter protest in Jersey.” John snorts. “It must’ve been kinda a shock seeing me pop up during his morning Fox News.”

Alex bites back a laugh. “Man. But your dad’s black, yeah?” His voice turns bitter. Probably thinking about his roommate Burr, who steadfastly refuses to reveal the slightest political opinion, even on shit you’d take for granted. “I’ll never understand people who –” POC who don’t care about racial issues? Laurens can finish this sentence for him.

Laurens just shakes his head. “He thinks the whole thing’s too ‘radical’, alienating the ‘rest of the populace’ – by which he means his constituency.” John rolls his eyes. “As if countering police brutality is something _radical,_ it’s a basic right, he should just – check the fucking constitution since he’s the fucking _lawyer_ , I swear –”

“Hey, you ever invite me for Christmas, I don’t mind tearing him to shreds face-to-face,” Hamilton says, all too casually. “That reminds me! I gotta start following him on twitter.” He fishes his phone out of the pocket of his hoodie. “Is his profile pic still a literal golden cross?”

John buries his face in his hands. “I don’t even fucking know.”

Alex toys with the phone a while longer, flicking through notifications, before. “ _Merde alors_. It _is._ ”

_At least it’s not the Confederate Flag._ “He thinks he’s just taking the default opinion,” Laurens says, somewhat despairingly. “It’s hard to believe but he really has no idea how bad he looks. He’s like Burr gone wrong. Henry Burr. South Carolina Burr.”

Hamilton is holding back laughter. “Sure.”

Outside, it starts to snow. The glass beads hanging from Eliza’s rear-view mirror glitter like Christmas lights. Laurens’ face emerges from his hands and he steals another sip of Alex’s coffee. He fiddles with the radio. Every station is still playing carols, even though December is nearly over. Hamilton hums in response, following the tune just loud enough to be noticed. He spent Christmas Day with ‘Eliza’s family’ – now, John realizes with no small degree of horror, ‘the Schuylers’ – in upstate New York. Plenty of snow there. Less so in Charleston, where it rains and rains the whole month long.

Still, it’s New York. By December winter’s just beginning.

“Hey, now that Eliza’s _Angelica Schuyler’s sister,_ just how high are you social climbing?”

Hamilton grins. “High. Between the two of you, high s _quared.”_

Laurens is startled into laughter.

Alex curls back into his hoodie like a cat. “Damn, I’m going to be rich.” Laurens passes him the coffee cup and he takes a gulp, eyes nearly closing. “Super rich. Like, 1% rich. Jefferson-will-be-defending-my-tax-cuts rich.” He hands the coffee back and unconsciously answers Laurens’ fond smile with one of his own, quickly hidden behind ink-stained fingers.

“Give yourself some credit,” Laurens offers. “The moment you cross that threshold, Jefferson’ll experience a sudden change of heart.”

“Hah. Use his petty sense of revenge to get the flat tax through? I like it.”

“Bringing the system down from within.”

Hamilton smirks.

For a few minutes, they remain like this, silent except for the radio’s fuzzy rendition of Do You Hear What I Hear and Alex humming along when it suits him. Laurens leans back into his coat – now unzipped but remaining, a comforting warmth, behind his shoulders. He looks at his hands, flexing his glove-less fingers in front of the radiator. Barely any flakes remain of November’s blue nail polish. (As soon as he’s away from his insane friends for more than a week, that’s what happens.) He guesses they won’t last a week before Mulligan gives them a fresh coat.

His skin looks almost nice under the changing light: a warm brown spattered with the freckles Hamilton so loves to comment on. Laurens turns them over to examine the palms. He wonders if he should start drawing again. It might be nice to draw Alex. (He’s already predicted at least 20 possible responses to that request, with varying levels of sincerity and innuendo.) Or Mulligan, or Lafayette – Jesus, why are his friends all so fucking gorgeous?

Hamilton’s hand, a few shades lighter, folds over his own, fingers seeking purchase until they interlock. His left stays on the wheel. For a moment John thinks he hears Hamilton murmur something – French? Spanish? – but it’s too quiet to make out. He squeezes Laurens’ hand once and lets it go, eyes lost in the lights of the road.

As the song ends and Alex turns down the volume on the tinny advertisement that follows, Laurens stifles a yawn.

“You wanna sleep, go ahead,” Hamilton says. “I know where your apartment is.”

“What about y –”

“Burr’s pretty used to me not coming back by now, I don’t think you need to be worried about him. That is, if it’s okay –”

 If it’s _still_ okay, is what he means to say. There’s no need for that.

“Hamilton, you practically lived at my place last term, I don’t think it’s a problem.” Laurens meant for it to come out assertive, but he’s pretty sure it’s a lot quieter than he intended, and he ends up trailing off halfway through. His head, turned to face Hamilton, falls back into the cushion of the crumpled coat and headrest.

Alex’s smile is lost in sweeping shadow as he makes a right off the highway. He glances at Laurens. It seems like his dark hair will never stay in its ponytail no matter how much he tries. Beautiful. “Go ahead and get some sleep if you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thanks,” Laurens mumbles. He’s not sure that’s the appropriate response. “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Pretentious self-indulgent rambles because what else do I ever write. I really wasn't sure about how I handled everything, so if anything needs fixing pls let me know here or at meadowlarkx.tumblr.com!
> 
> (I can't seem to get a photo here so you'll have to just imagine the intense cheesiness of Henry Laurens' profile pic)


End file.
